Incident of Yellow Sky, Part 4
by Ash10
Summary: Alone, Mushy takes on his greatest challenge - see Yellow Sky and her baby safely to her people and return for a wounded Pete Nolan.


Mushy grabbed Pete's hand, easily wresting the pistol from the wounded man's grasp.

"What the heck you think you're doin', Mr. Nolan? You coulda killed yourself!"

Mushy collapsed onto the ground next to his friend, surprised to discover he was out of breath and shaking. He looked over at Pete, barely able to see him as clouds momentarily obscured the slivered moon, though he sat close enough to touch the man.

"What the heck were you tryin' to do, huh?" he questioned in a whisper. "Good thing you're a man to practice what you preach. If you'd a kept the hammer down on a loaded chamber instead of an empty one like you taught me…I remember exactly when you learned me that trick…it was the first day of the first ever drive. When I showed you my new pistol you told me 'Son, never keep the hammer down on a loaded chamber. If that gun falls outta your holster, and I seen it happen once to fella up in Wichita – he sat down at a poker table, the gun dropped outta his holster and hit the floor – BANG! Shot the card dealer right between the eyes, why you could kill somebody or end up shootin' yourself in the foot! Load five bullets and keep the sixth chamber empty and the hammer on the empty chamber. That's the only safety you got on that Colt a yours!' Yup, you told me that and I remember. I'm sure glad you do it that way, too, Mr. Nolan, 'cause if you didn't…." Mushy swallowed past the lump in this throat. Pete might've died then and there from a bullet fired from his own gun, by his own hand.

"What were you thinkin', Mr. Nolan?"

"Wolves, wolves and coyotes, Mushy. I couldn't die that way…you seen what's left of a man…I couldn't!" The thin voice drifted off.

"I heard them wolves, Mr. Nolan, uh, I mean Pete," Mushy remembered their new status. "I heard them wolves and the coyotes, too. When they got wind of us gettin' close they took off runnin'. All I seen of 'em was the tall grass wavin' where they cut a trail. There was sure a mess of 'em, though."

Mushy well imagined the terror the wounded Pete felt as the ravening pack closed on his position. Even knowing the animals were away and gone, the loathsome image of their slavering jaws made the hair on the back of Mushy's neck stand on end and the gooseflesh crawl up his arms. He'd seen all right and the memories were ever vivid.

Fingers clutching at his shirt sleeve drew Mushy out of his ugly recollections, bringing him quickly back to the present. He leaned close to Pete, who, when he spoke, sounded like he'd just come to realize that it was Mushy sitting there next to him.

"You found your way back…good job, Kid…and Yellow Sky, her and the baby…they're safe?" Pete's fingers clung tightly to Mushy's shirt. The young man patted the cold hand in reassurance.

"Yellow Sky and the baby are just fine. I came back soon as I could. When you weren't where I left you, well, I started to get scared. Then I saw where you dragged yourself off and I followed the trail and here you are!"

"Good job," Nolan repeated in a voice no more than a hoarse whisper. "I knew you could…"

"Thanks, Pete…thanks. I sure appreciate them kind words. Ain't often I get talked to that way," and it was true, praise was a rare commodity in the young man's life and his friend's honest compliment touched him deeply. Beneath his tan and the welcome cover of darkness, Mushy blushed.

Gently, he pried Pete's fingers from his shirt, scooting over to make room for one of his traveling companions, the aged Apache medicine man, Spotted Bird, to kneel at the wounded scout's side. Mushy followed the old man's movements as best he could in the nearly non-existent light, though the elderly healer worked unhampered by a darkness that was all to familiar to him; Spotted Bird was almost completely blind, the once black eyes obscured by milky opaque cataracts.

The healer spoke softly to Pete in Apache and the scout replied, the single word ground out between clenched jaws as Spotted Bird tore Nolan's shirt open, the ripping sound loud in the still night. Nervously, Mushy glanced quickly around. The other Apaches, the guards who'd accompanied the small rescue party, were unseen, but Mushy was reassured by their invisible presence nonetheless.

Spotted Bird worked quickly, applying water from Pete's canteen to some matted plant material he drew from the leather pouch tied to his belt, applying the now moist poultice to the wounds. He also took time to offer his patient a much needed drink. With Mushy's help, the old man secured a narrow strip of pliant deer skin bandaging completely around Nolan's body, holding the medicinal plant material in place.

At this point Mushy moved fast, bringing over Pete's conveyance – a narrow litter fastened behind a horse, deer hide stretched between its branch-formed skeleton forming a taut sling. Mushy lifted the slim body onto the litter, covering Pete with a heavy buffalo robe, its weight not only keeping the scout warm, but securely anchored as the litter moved across the uneven terrain.

As the group moved off, the first pink blush of dawn crept above the horizon. Mushy figured they ought to move as quickly as possible since daylight was fast approaching. He'd never shaken off the feeling of being watched, of being followed, the thought of a Comanche war party keeping his nerves on edge. He was glad, very glad, that Yellow Sky and the baby were safe at the camp of her people. He reckoned his Apache companions felt the same way since they moved out at a fast walk.

Mushy rode beside Pete's litter, concerned for his friend's safety, though his worries proved groundless. The scout rested secure beneath the heavy robe, his hurting body gently cradled in the hammock-like structure. Spotted Bird, astride the horse, had no problem following the lead horseman; his mount moved steadily behind the other ponies with no obvious need for guidance from his sightless rider.

As the small party crested a low knoll and rode downward toward the protection of the creek and its tree-lined banks, a shot rang out, scattering the little group as each headed for whatever protection was available.

Mushy grabbed Spotted Bird's reins and headed for a thick clump of stunted willows where he pulled the old man none too gently from the saddle and pushed him beneath the low branches.

Back to the horse he scrambled where he cut the rawhide thongs holding the litter to the animal and grabbed a rifle from the scabbard. Frightened by the now continuous noise of gunfire and shouts, the horse bolted. Keeping as low to the ground as possible, Mushy dragged the litter behind the willows, no mean feat as the structure caught on every protruding stump and rock. By the time Mushy and his charge reached safety, the young man was red-faced from exertion and sweating profusely.

Checking Pete and finding him unharmed, Mushy turned toward the battle. Levering a round into the Henry, he took aim and fired, scoring a direct hit against one of the Comanche, knocking the brave from the saddle. There seemed to be plenty of Indians to go around leading Mushy to think that he and his small group were soundly outnumbered. He kept firing.

Across the creek and just out of rifle range a lone Comanche sat his horse, though he didn't sit him still. Gesturing wildly with his rifle while shrieking in his own language, he seemed to be taunting his opponents. Mushy squinted, bringing the image into clearer focus. If he wasn't mistaken and he seldom was when it came to remembering a man's face, he recognized this Indian as the same warrior who had ridden into Mr. Favor's camp demanding Yellow Sky and the cattle. Still gesturing wildly, the Comanche skillfully kept just a hair's breadth out of the range of his enemy's rifles.

Upon closer inspection, Mushy realized the horse upon which this brave sat was none other than Pete Nolan's big buckskin gelding! At least Mushy was pretty sure it was Buck, though the animal no longer sported Nolan's plain, yet serviceable saddle and tack, but an outright garishly decorated black Mexican saddle which literally dripped silver. Nearly every exposed part was covered with the shiny expensive metal, including the saddle horn. Even the bridle blazed with silver spots of various sizes. As the rider urged the horse out of the shadows and into the bright light, the sun glinting off the silver was enough to blind a man.

"Wonder which one of them rich Mexican Dons he stole that rig off of?" Mushy whispered in awe. But awe quickly turned to anger.

It galled Mushy, really ate away at his insides, to think _that_ Indian of all Indians now rode Pete Nolan's horse; galled him to the point where he had to be absolutely certain it _was_ Pete's horse. There was one sure way to tell. Mushy thought back to the beginning of the drive when Mr. Favor hired on a man named Cimarron. Cimarron was a hot-headed know-it-all and Pete Nolan proved once and for all that this Cimarron did not 'know it all' when it came to horses, especially when it came to one named Buck.

Cimarron swore he could ride any horse born and was willing to back up the statement with cold, hard cash. When it was known around camp that he meant to ride Buck, many of the drovers laid down hard earned pay for a chance to prove him wrong and make some change in the process; a win-win situation.

Cimarron had watched the scout ride the horse on a daily basis for a week and noticed nothing wild or out of the ordinary with the big gelding. And when Nolan agreed to let the new drover try his hand on Buck, the bets were on.

Pete himself held Buck's head as Cimarron mounted up. When the cowboy nodded, Nolan let go. Buck just stood there. When his rider kicked him in the ribs, Buck obligingly broke into a trot. Cimarron sat the saddle grinning like a jack ass, probably already counting the money he'd made off the bets. So absorbed was he in thinking of ways to spend the money, he failed to notice three short shrill whistles, followed by a single long one. That was his undoing for Buck did hear. The ride was on and very shortly, Cimarron was off. What he did not know, but the other drovers did, was that Buck's name did not come from his coloration as is the case for most buckskins, but for his abilities. When it came to bucking, Buck was in a class all by his lonesome.

So Mushy remembered this and waiting for the slightest lull in the action he gave three short, loud, shrill whistles followed by one long blast. Instantly, the gelding's ears perked up. Again Mushy gave the signal, this time whistling for all he was worth. The horse reacted violently, rearing up onto his hind legs and hitting the ground with his front in bone-jarring impact. Buck sidestepped, crow-hopped, sun-fished and for the finale, for it was the finale, did a belly roll that might have dislocated a lesser horse's backbone. Mushy couldn't help but cheer out loud as the Comanche flipped off Buck's back in a high arcing somersault that landed him flat out on the ground – motionless, as stiff as a cod, as all the air left his body in a rush. This action was enough to cause the nearest Comanche to stop dead in their tracks to stare at their fallen leader, making them prime targets for their Apache foe who took advantage of the situation by firing with unerring accuracy into the stunned group.

With the Indian out of the saddle, Buck took off at a run, across the creek, through the Comanche warriors directly to where Mushy knelt. Reaching up, the youngster grabbed the horse's dangling reins, tying them off to a convenient branch near Pete's litter. Mushy felt a tug at his heart when the big gelding dipped his head to nuzzle his master's shoulder, not once, but several times as if waiting for Nolan to return the caress.

"He would if he could, Bucky." Mushy acknowledged.

At that moment a great commotion tore his attention from the tender scene. On top of the low knoll just to the east centered a wild ruckus – gunshots, shouts, and a cloud of dust that could only mean an entire troop of U.S. Cavalry was charging to the rescue!

Without thinking of his own safety, Mushy leaped to his feet. Obviously, the Comanche had also seen and were abandoning the attack, scattering like so many frightened quail.

Mushy watched, fascinated, as a single warrior crossed the creek at a dead run directly toward his horseless leader who had obviously gotten his wind back and stood waiting on the far bank. Leaning low in the saddle, the brave extended his arm. The leader was up onto the back of that pony so quickly Mushy thought the entire action a conjurer's trick. In an instant, men and pony were gone.

Mushy turned to Spotted Bird. The elderly man was uninjured, but very excited, jabbering on and on and very animated in his actions. Mushy patted him on the shoulder and got him to sit down near Pete. The jabbering continued as Mushy turned toward the expected cavalrymen, words of thanks on his lips, a huge smile on his face. As the first riders crested the small ridge, Mushy's jaw dropped open in surprise….

To be continued.


End file.
